


SamBucky Week 2015

by platonicharmonics



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Sam/Bucky Week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-25
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-11 05:37:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4423430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/platonicharmonics/pseuds/platonicharmonics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>7 Prompts, 7 Days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Finding Bucky

**Author's Note:**

> I can't seem to stay away from [these things](http://platonicharmonics.tumblr.com/post/124016006833/buckyandsam-sam-bucky-week-july-24-30-2015).
> 
> Also, I'm a day late on this, but whatever.

In hindsight, Sam really shouldn't have gone into the sewer system under Paris alone with only a handgun. _Especially_ not while worrying about the safety of Steve, who wasn't answering his phone while the news was raging non-stop about how the Avengers got caught up in Ultron's devastation and then seemingly disappeared. He hadn't slept in _two days_.

But a homeless woman said a man who matched Bucky's description dressed in a hoodie and torn jeans dropped down here six hours ago.

All of Bucky's signs pointed to Paris – his trail was perfectly cold while he and Steve were hunting him down, but right after Ultron's attack at Avengers Tower, a glaring beacon showed up in Siberia. An “abandoned” factory was bombed, and strange equipment that shouldn't have been there was found in the rubble. Sam got there as fast as he could and began desperately following the trail, which grew warmer and warmer all the time until finally he found a pristine map of Paris in a decaying tool shed.

Bucky was getting sloppy, which could only mean a few things, and Sam didn't like any of them.

So there he was, traipsing across musty sidewalks along canals of nasty water, seeing only by the light of the flashlight app on his phone. He didn't trust himself to be able to use his gun, even if he wanted to – spots kept appearing occasionally in his vision, he'd stumble on every other step, and he was pretty sure he was seeing things.

A shadow moved at the end of the corridor. Sam stopped and blinked hard, then stared at the end of the corridor again. No movement, but then he thought he heard whispers carried on a breeze through one of the side tunnels. Sam shivered and pulled his jacket tighter.

Creepy.

Heart in his throat, he warily walked to the end of the tunnel where it ended in a fork. He peered down one dark hallway, then the other. That was when he heard a gunshot and the screaming started.

Sam guessed that there were maybe two dozen men's voices and the unmistakable sound of electricity, and suddenly the sewers were _alive_.

A gruff voice shouted, “ _Avancez!_ ” shortly followed by the pounding sound of a squadron's boots. Sam grabbed his pistol and ran, trying to turn the light off from his phone, but he was too groggy; he dodged one squadron only to stumble right into another. They took one look at him and opened fire; he barrel-rolled into a side corridor and sprinted to another vein of the maze, then out into a wide open room with six different paths. He heard more boots storming down one of the corridors, so he continued running down a random path, away from the noise, away from the noise – he finally turned the light off – down a set of stairs, and-

He came across a set of stairs that led down to a flooded room with a foot of water, swiftly rising due to a busted pipe in the ceiling. The electricity still jumping across the water illuminated the twenty-or-so dead bodies floating in the death trap. Sam risked taking a step closer to try and get a better look at their tactical uniforms; black, completely bare, no identifying markers.

The cold muzzle of a pistol pressed against the nape of his neck.

“What the fuck,” Sam muttered, slowly raising his hands. He was interrupted by being turned around.

Bucky stood there, looking tired, greasy, and annoyed. He jerked his head left, holstered his pistol, and started running. Sam, not nearly awake enough for this level of bullshit, ran after him. He took note that Bucky wasn't racing ahead, making sure he'd keep pace.

Bucky led him through the twisting maze, always staying one step ahead of the soldiers, before darting into a tiny passage with an earth floor. They squeezed through until they rounded a corner; then Bucky started kicking the wall. Once, twice, and-

The wall crumbled to reveal a lit chamber of skulls. A single soldier jumped back with a shout of fright, saw Bucky, then raised his rifle with another cry. A shot fired.

The soldier fell, dead, hit clean between the eyes. Bucky looked at the pistol in Sam's hand, to the soldier, to Sam, to the soldier, back to Sam. His face softened. He grunted something that might have been “C'mon,” then dropped down into the catacombs.

“ _Please_ tell me that all of these soldiers are HYDRA,” Sam begged, warily dropping down after him. Bucky turned and nodded, then started walking. Sam sighed and shook his head, and, for lack of anything better to do, followed him.

–

After an hour or so of doing nothing but walking around the city, trying their best to be unnoticed, hunching against the cold, Sam prompted, “Are we even going anywhere?” They were currently in a neighborhood of dilapidated buildings with barred windows. “Don't you have a safehouse or something?”

Bucky's mouth quirked at the side, brief. “I had to flood my last one.”

Sam let them walk for another minute or so. “I have a hotel room, you know.”

“No.”

“I have a car.”

Bucky slowed his pace and looked down at the concrete, thoughtful. He hummed.

–

By the time they reached his car in the hotel car park, the adrenaline was wearing off, and Sam constantly felt like he was three steps from collapsing. “All my luggage is still in here,” he slurred, “'cause I just got here this morning, I think I brought some...” he fought off a yawn and rubbed his eyes, “...snacks.”

“No thanks.”

Sam tried to give him a disbelieving look while fishing for his keys. “You look like you're starving, dude.”

“Don't call me 'dude.'”

Sam heaved a sigh. “Okay. Consider phrase and subject dropped.” He started walking towards the driver's side door, but Bucky gently curled his fingers into his sleeve and tugged. Sam swayed on his feet, then looked up at him; there was a crinkle between his brows.

Sam blinked. “Oh. You wanna drive?”

The crinkle between his brows deepened and his mouth quirked upwards again. Sam shook his head and handed him the keys. “It's a rental, by the way, so careful.” As Bucky waved a dismissive hand at him and got into the driver's seat, Sam rooted around the grocery bag in the back seat until he found a banana.

He plopped down into the passenger seat, shut the door, and pointed the banana at Bucky, who was glaring at it. “I'm not going to make you eat this, but if you ever feel up to it, it's officially yours. And I don't want it back.”

After glaring at the banana for a few more seconds, Bucky grabbed it and shoved it into his hoodie pocket. He started the car and backed out. “Can I ask you some questions?”

Sam was expecting this. He buckled up, rubbed his face, and grunted, “Sure.”

“When was the last time you slept?”

Okay, that was a surprise. “Ungh... Like, two days ago maybe?”

“Why?”

Sam leaned his head back against the car seat and closed his eyes. “Have you been watching the news?” A huff. Yes, then. “Then you know why.”

They drove in silence for a while. Sam would snap his eyes open every so often, taking note of where they were and what Bucky was doing, then let his head droop. When they were leaving the city, Bucky asked, “Why come after me instead of helping him?”

Sam propped his chin on his hand. “Well, I'm kind of grounded right now.” Bucky went very still. “Stark offered to fix my wings, but he's kind of busy, and, uh... Yeah.”

Bucky's hands flexed on the steering wheel and Sam was suddenly reminded of that same metal arm crashing through a windshield and tearing one out of his hands, that same metal arm tearing his wings apart. A spike of adrenaline woke him up a little. He leaned away, slightly.

Bucky worked his jaw a moment, then managed, “I'm... sorry.”

“I appreciate that.” Bucky glanced at him, glanced down, then looked back at the road. So he caught that he wasn't forgiven. Good. “And, um, uh... Thanks for getting me out of those sewers.”

“Thanks for taking that shot.”

Sam smiled. “Any time, man...” He yawned and closed his eyes, slowly sagging in his seat. “Any time.” A beat. “You smell, by the way.”

“Go to _sleep_ , Wilson.”

–

When he woke up, he had to admit that he had no idea what he was expecting.

What he found was that he was alone, and the car was parked in an airport parking lot full of signs reading _Genève, Schweiz_. A plane ticket and a travel brochure for Wakanda rested in his lap, and a banana peel sat on the dashboard.

Sam quickly leafed through the brochure – the Royal Technology Centre was circled – then flipped it to its back. On it was written:

_Don't come after me._

Then, smaller:

_I'll come to you._

Even smaller:

_Take care of the jerkass._

Sam smiled and looked around the car. Seeing no sign of Bucky, he looked back at the brochure and nodded.


	2. All Your Favs Are Trans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The amount of people who liked the first chapter has left me completely stunned and delighted. I hope y'all continue to enjoy these. (I sure am.)

“So do you like the blue one or the green one more?”

Bucky bit their lip and crossed their arms, continuously casing the clothing department. They shrugged. “I dunno.”

Sam sighed and tried to follow their gaze; they were in a Macy's at the nearest mall from hir apartment, dress shopping. “No one's staring. It's fine, we're fine.”

Bucky glanced at hir, expression flat, then shifted their weight to the other foot.

This all started when Bucky started reacting negatively to being treated as male. After about a month of unexplained passive aggression and a general foul attitude, Sam casually swapped the old pronouns out with neutral ones while retelling a story to Steve and noticed that Bucky finally didn't flinch at every pronoun. The next day, while Steve was out with Nat, Bucky warily approached hir to ask about gender.

It was a very long conversation that seemed to create more questions than answers. Sam was only able to gather the following: 1) Bucky liked they/them/their, 2) They had no idea what their gender was beyond that, 3) They wanted to experiment with their expression, and 4) were completely terrified to do so.

They also made hir swear not to tell Steve, and if _that_ was any indication of how comfortable Bucky felt about all of this, well. Sam wasn't about to out someone to anyone, even if that anyone was Captain America.

Sam promised them that in a week ze'd take them shopping and buy them a single dress of their choosing, a special thing amongst their closet of nondescript sweats, and then they'd be able to go from there. Ze even wore hir favorite dress for this trip – a deep scarlet sheath dress – but every time a passerby looked at hir for more than a second, ze got the feeling that Bucky wanted to climb up the walls and through the roof.

“Okay, how about this. We can go to the dressing rooms and try them on, see which one compliments you more?”

“Why don't _you_ just pick out a dress so we can go home?”

“Because we're not doing this for _me_ , Buck, we're doing for _you_. And we don't know your size.” When Bucky started backing up towards a secluded corner, Sam quickly hung up the dresses and went to their side and whispered, “Hey, hey, hey, we don't have to do this. We can go home at any time.”

“This is stupid,” Bucky mumbled, staring intently at their arms. “We shouldn't have come here, I'm probably just making things up.”

“ _Hey_ , none of that. You told me yourself that you felt happier thinking about treating yourself to feminine things. That's why we're here. But I can tell you're not comfortable, so yeah, we can go home, but please don't call your feelings stupid.”

Sam patted their shoulder and started walking away so they could leave; after a few steps ze noticed that Bucky wasn't following, so ze went back.

“How do you do it?” Bucky whispered. Sam raised an eyebrow and Bucky grimaced. “How do you just... accept it so easily?”

Sam slowly raised a finger. “First off – I didn't.” Bucky looked bewildered. “It took me _twenty-six_ years to sort my shit out, hon, another two to make sense of it, and I'm _still_ coming to terms with it. You're _just now_ questioning things, and absolutely all of this is new, yeah?” Bucky nodded. “People like to say that 'only you know who you are,' but they never talk about what to do when you don't.” They nodded again and smiled a little. “And you want to hear a radical idea?” Bucky blinked at hir, then raised their brows and inclined their head, expectant. “You don't _have_ to know who you are. Not now, not tomorrow, not this year, not this decade – hell, not ever. It's okay to not put yourself in a box and just _feel_. You're not timed. You don't owe anyone anything.”

Bucky took a deep breath, then slowly let it out. Their stiff shoulders eased downwards. “I guess what I'm most afraid of is... unwanted attention.”

“If this is about 'passing'-”

“This is about violence.”

Sam sighed, crossed hir arms, and looked at hir feet. “Yeah, that's not really something you can control. Which is why I worry about it, too.”

“But you still...”

“Dress feminine when I feel like it? You bet. Because it would make me feel a lot worse if I tried to smother that part of me than to embrace it. So, really, Buck, do you – and _only you_ – feel like it would be better for you to try and experiment right now, or are you okay with how things are already?”

Bucky remained silent for a long while, staring at the floor with only the occasional scan across the area – until on one scan, their eyes widened into saucers and their mouth opened slightly before slowly curling into a smile.

Sam quickly looked behind hir, trying to follow Bucky's line-of-sight, and- “Oh. Good choice.”

–

Bucky put on the plain white long-sleeve swing-style dress as soon as they got home, went straight to their room, and immediately started twirling.

Sam stood in the doorway, beaming, watching them as they twirled, barefoot, long hair swirling around their shoulders. Their laughter was the brightest ze ever heard it. Eventually they stopped and looked at hir, a little breathless. “I remember being jealous of the girls I used to dance with because they were able to do the swishy thing!”

Sam spared a chuckle. “I'm glad to see you like it.”

Bucky's wide smile eased into a grin, and they started to idly swish the dress back and forth. “Thanks for buying this, Sam. I owe you one.”

“ _More_ than one at this point, I think,” ze joked.

Bucky twirled towards hir and Sam barely had enough time to brace hirself before Bucky spun into hir arms and dipped themself. Their face was very close, suddenly. “Maybe I can bake you something.”

Sam blinked and realized ze was looking at their lips. Ze quickly looked up and saw them looking at _hir_ lips. Their eyes met.

The two of them immediately let go of each other as if shocked. Sam backed out of the doorway and Bucky grabbed the door, beamed at hir one last time with a “Thanks again,” and shut it.

Sam, definitely not wanting to even start unraveling the fluttering feeling in hir chest and in hir gut, smiled one last time at the door and left.


	3. (Optional) Sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so there's lots to talk about here.
> 
> **Most important:** Most of this story deals with Sam reliving past trauma. It starts with him suffering a panic attack, and then Bucky gets a semi-graphic injury. I was heavily inspired by [this tumblr post](http://stormy-stormy-high.tumblr.com/post/120355210912/sam-wilson-rileys-death-and-ptsd-trigger). Just as a heads-up.
> 
> **Second important:** I am an aromantic asexual who only decided to fill out this prompt as a kind of challenge to see if I could even _do it_. Did I do it? You tell me, I have no idea.
> 
> Also - the smut part isn't even the main thing, it's tacked on to the end, so if you don't want to read smut written by someone who can't truly understand it, you can just read the main bit where I wrote to my strengths. When you see this thing:
> 
> ~*~*~*~
> 
> That means the regular part is transitioning to the smut part, and you can stop there if you want. The main part can stand on its own, I made sure of that.
> 
> If y'all do wanna read the smut part, then just plow right past that thing and keep on truckin'.
> 
> If you're looking for a steamy sex scene with little emotion and dialogue, -jedi hand wave- this is not the smut you're looking for.

It took Bucky three seconds for him to leap from his bed, dart down the hall, and shoulder open Sam's bedroom door from the moment he heard him start screaming.

Sam was rolling and thrashing on the bed, grunting and shrieking and yelling, looking for all intents and purposes like he was fighting for his life. Some of the noises were things like “No” and “Please” and “Riley.” His thrashing kept tangling him in the blanket, which got him more panicked, and Bucky finally unfroze.

He hurried to the bedside and chanted, “ _Sam!_ Sam. Hey. It's me, it's me, it's me. Hey.” Sam's eyes snapped open; he looked at Bucky, then promptly rolled out of bed and onto the floor. Finally fighting off the blanket, he crawled until his back was against the wall and started hugging his knees, sucking in strangled gasps of air.

Bucky slowly lowered himself to the ground so he wasn't looming over him, made sure his voice wouldn't shake, and said, “You're here, in your apartment. You're safe. There's no danger. Breathe. What do you need?”

Sam reached out and grabbed his metal hand, then pressed it to where his throat met his chest, still hyperventilating. Bucky thought – hoped – he understood; he scooted over to the wall, where Sam pressed himself flush against his side, and promptly began a deep breathing exercise. He held eye contact with Sam the whole time, willing his panicked breathing to slow and match his. Slowly, painfully, Sam started breathing relatively normal.

Sam took one deep breath, then another, then sprang up and dashed to the room's bathroom, collapsed in front of the toilet, and lost his supper. Bucky followed him and hovered in the doorway, still trying to appear calm. “Is there anything I can do?”

Sam coughed and spit a little, then asked, “My meds?” He swallowed and grimaced. “A glass of water?”

Bucky nodded and went to his night-stand, grabbed the orange prescription bottle, and proceeded to the kitchen.

The last two days had been... rough. The rest of the Avengers were still on assignment, but he and Sam had to be sent home on the very first day.

They decided to do a night ambush on the occupied city. Sam, Rhodey, and Tony took to the skies while the rest of them formed a wedge to drive the enemy soldiers away from the residential areas; once they were out of the civilian zone, the air crew would fly in and flank them from behind, and together they'd grind them down to surrender.

Everything went wrong from the very start.

The soldiers had captured and tortured the civilian informant they had been collaborating with, so they were ready when the ambush came. The soldiers scattered in all directions, to blockades and weapons caches, all of them armed to the teeth.

Sam was flying beside Rhodey when Rhodey got hit with an RPG. The War Machine armor shrugged it off, of course, but Sam completely lost it.

Bucky was pinned down on a city block not far away when he saw Sam spiral downwards into the middle of a hot zone. Rhodey had already shot past, going too fast, and there was no one else around, so Bucky did the only thing he could think to do – sprint recklessly into the middle of the firestorm to try and save him.

The emotion and recklessness bit him in the ass when he was shot through the throat. Surrounded on all sides by fully-automatic weapons, snipers on rooftops, and with a hole in his neck, he had no choice but to turn back or be mowed down. He felt like Sam's executioner in that moment, but Rhodey, bless him, had immediately looped around, dove in, mowed down Sam's attackers, and got him the hell out of there.

Tony was the one who had to call in the medical evac for them both because Steve was too busy being half out of his mind. Bucky signed _We'll be okay_ almost five times at him before Steve was able to process what he was doing, and even as they were leaving, Steve looked one hurt friend away from imploding into some kind of worry singularity.

Bucky's throat was mostly healed, the only sign of being shot at all just a dark red splotch, but Sam's wounds were much more severe.

He returned to the bathroom with the pills, a glass of water, and a package of saltine crackers and gently set them down beside Sam. Sam took his dosage, swallowed it down with the water, and then warily started nibbling on the crackers while Bucky sat down beside him.

He lifted his hand towards Sam, then stopped. Sam glanced at him and nodded; he gently started rubbing his shoulder, then his back, then the nape of his neck.

They sat in silence until Sam finished the glass. Then, staring at the tiles in the floor, Sam croaked, “It's so horrible.”

Bucky let out a soft exhale and pulled Sam against his chest. “I know it is.”

“I was there.”

“I know.”

“I saw him torn apart.”

Bucky closed his eyes.

“And I couldn't do anything.”

Bucky pressed a gentle kiss to Sam's temple. “There's no words for something like that.”

Sam heaved a half-sigh, half-sob. “I hate feeling powerless. Feeling _useless_.”

Bucky opened his eyes and tilted Sam's chin up so he'd look him in the eye. “You're anything but.”

A ghost of a smile flickered across Sam's face; then he started to get up, picking up the pill bottle and the glass. Bucky mirrored him, picking up the crackers.

“I'm going to clean myself up, brush my teeth, make myself feel a little less nasty.”

“Want me to take these back into the kitchen?”

“Yeah. Thanks, Buck.”

Bucky nodded, took the glass, and headed back out. He took his time, slowly moving around the kitchen, even washing the glass, before heading back towards his room. He hesitated in Sam's doorway; Sam was sitting on his bed, hunched over and looking miserable. Then he looked up. “Buck?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you... Can you stay with me tonight?”

Bucky swallowed; he glanced towards his own bedroom, then back to Sam. “Of _course_ I can.”

He shut the bedroom door behind him and slid into bed beside Sam while he held open the covers. Then, they settled down, neatly on their separate sides.

Sam took a deep breath, stared at the ceiling, then said, “I'm sorry for putting you through that.”

“Sam, if you even _start_ apologizing, so help me, I'm going to kick your ass.”

A grin twitched onto Sam's face; he was still refusing to look at him, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “Oops, too late.”

Bucky scoffed, then rolled onto his side to face Sam and lifted his arm. “C'mere.”

Sam _finally_ looked at him. “Huh?”

“I said _c'mere_ , we're spooning.”

That actually got a laugh out of him – a small laugh, but Bucky took the point. “Okay, that's-” Bucky lifted a brow. Sam blinked. “Oh. You're serious.”

“C' _mere_.” Sam reluctantly smiled, then scooted into the embrace. Bucky pulled him flat against him, back-to-front, and curled his arm around Sam over the covers. “This okay?”

“I always knew you were a cuddlebug.”

“Is this _okay?_ ”

Sam snuggled back against him. “More than okay.”

Bucky breathed a laugh and pressed a kiss to the back of Sam's neck. “Sweet dreams.”

“...Yeah. You too.”

~*~*~*~

Bucky slowly drifted into being awake to the feeling of lips mouthing at his throat.

When he finally registered what was happening he snapped awake, but made carefully sure that he didn't tense or make any move that would suggest he'd woken up.

Bucky was curled around Sam, their legs entwined, with Sam's head tucked under his chin. Sam was curled into him and gently mouthing at his neck and collarbone while pressing an erection into his hip.

Bucky had absolutely no idea what to do. Who was Sam dreaming about? Was it Riley? Shit. He should move. He should wake Sam up. But this was the first pleasant dream Sam'd had since they were sent back from the fight. And shouldn't he let him sleep after how little he'd gotten? Or was this taking advantage, even if he didn't want it – _especially_ if he thought he was Riley? He swallowed.

Sam's lips stilled, and then his whole body tensed.

Well, fuck.

Sam opened his eyes, moved his head back, and said, “I'm sorry.” He immediately extracted his legs and let Bucky sit up and move to the edge of the bed.

“I'm sorry too,” Bucky mumbled.

Sam sat up and moved to the opposite end of the bed. “ _Shit_ , Bucky, _I'm sorry_ – why didn't you wake me up?”

“Because... it... wasn't a nightmare.”

“That shouldn't _matter_ , Buck.”

“You really shouldn't be apologizing, either.”

“No, I really _should_.”

“Sam, you should hold on to the things that make you happy, it's perfectly understandable that feeling someone next to you like that would bring back-”

“ _No_ , it's _wrong_ because I've never – I've never _told you._ ”

Bucky tilted his head and squinted at him. “You told me you loved Riley before.”

“ _What?_ ”

Bucky stared at him. “What?”

Sam blinked several times and dragged a hand down his face. “Okay, Bucky, explain to me what _you_ thought this was.”

Bucky grimaced and shrugged. “I thought you were dreaming about Riley. I-I... didn't want to ruin it.”

Sam groaned. “I wasn't... dreaming... about Riley.”

Bucky slowly inhaled. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you love him?”

“Wha- who's 'him'?!”

“...Steve...?”

“ _Holy God_ – Bucky, it's _you_ , I was dreaming about _you_ , I'm _in love_ with _you!_ ”

Bucky's jaw dropped open. He gaped for a good five seconds, then went, “ _Since when?”_

Sam crossed his arms and turned away. “I have no fucking idea, honestly. It just kind of – came at me one night.” Bucky worked his jaw, frantically trying to sort his thoughts. “It doesn't matter anyway. I'll never bring it up again, I promise.”

Bucky squawked, then managed, “Did I _offend_ you?”

Sam looked at him, bewildered. “Huh? No!”

“Then why doesn't it matter?!”

“Because you're not interested!”

“Who the hell said _that?_ ”

“I thought – you haven't expressed a _single iota_ of wanting a romantic relationship with anyone!”

“That's because I've been too busy being head-over-heels for _you_ , moron!”

Sam gaped at him and Bucky started laughing. Sam shook his head and smiled, then reached out his hand towards him. Bucky took it, and pulled them roughly back into the middle of the middle of the bed. Their noses bumped against each other and Sam breathed out a laugh. They held each other for a moment, then Bucky slowly started leaning forward. Sam leaned back a little. Bucky curled a hand around Sam's jaw and glared at him, prompting Sam to chuckle and finally lean forward. Their lips fumbled once, then locked together.

They kissed for a while, hands gently caressing each other's shoulders and sides, until Bucky's hand slid down Sam's night-shirt and then started sliding back up beneath it. Sam's breath hitched, but when Bucky swiped a thumb over a nipple he broke the kiss, leaned back, and said, “Whoa, wait.”

Bucky's brows furrowed. “Not okay?”

“No, it's – for me okay, but for _you_ okay?”

“Why wouldn't it be? I'm the one doing it.”

“Bucky, if you don't want this, you don't _have_ to.”

Bucky leaned in and kissed him again, slow and tender. His hands slid down to rest on Sam's hips. When he leaned back again, he rumbled, “ _I want to_.”

Sam, a little breathless, huffed a laugh and nodded. “Okay then.”

Bucky smiled and kissed him deeply, trailing his hands underneath Sam's shirt once more. He started rubbing small circles over his hips – one warm and smooth, the other a cold drag of friction – before sliding his right hand back up to play with his nipple, using his left one to slowly lift Sam's shirt up. Sam raised his arms to help, and then it was off and discarded to the floor. Bucky broke the kiss to start mouthing at his throat, sucking at the skin, occasionally nipping and soothing with his tongue while easing Sam down onto his back. Then he leaned back and pulled off his own nightshirt and tossed it to the side; Sam raked his eyes up and down his chest and stomach – fucking supersoldier muscles – until Bucky caught his hand and pressed it to his abs.

“You can _touch me_ , you know. It feels nice.” He then took his newly freed hand and slid it behind Sam's back, cupping his palm around the muscle there. He huffed a laugh and kissed his collarbone. “I've always wondered what your back muscles felt like. Turns out they feel like steel cables.”

“Yeah, well,” Sam mused, leaning up to press a gentle kiss to the light-pink splotch on Bucky's neck, “that's what happens with years of operating the wings.” He trailed his own hands up Bucky's abdomen to his pecs, letting the other continue to the nape of his neck. Bucky, meanwhile, continued pressing kisses down his chest before moving to his nipples.

He pressed a kiss to one, then flicked out his tongue – Sam gasped and convulsed. Bucky smirked and did it again, and Sam's hand on Bucky's nape slid up to thread into his hair while Bucky moved to do the same to the other one. This time, he nipped it, and Sam was about to gasp again when he cupped his cock with his metal hand through his night-shorts.

Sam let out choked, involuntary noise that Bucky chuckled at. Sam used his hand in his hair to gently pull his head back up from his chest and kissed him, if only to get him to shut up.

Which might have been a mistake, because with his mouth no longer exploring Sam's body, Bucky's metal hand gently stroked Sam's dick through the fabric, then curled into the hem of his shorts and underwear and began tugging. Sam arched his back and lifted off the bed to enable him to get them off as fast as possible; Bucky complied, breaking the kiss to slide them off and toss them aside. Sam fell back into the mattress, his dick hard and no longer restrained, and Bucky backed up so he could start trailing kisses down his stomach, stroking his hands along his inner thighs.

When Bucky finally, blessedly, reached his dick, he pressed a kiss to its base, then trailed them up the shaft before kissing the head. Then he smirked and flicked his tongue again and Sam almost threw a pillow at him.

That was when Bucky swallowed him down and Sam cried out, letting go of Bucky to fist his hands in the sheets for the will to not buck his hips. Bucky hollowed his cheeks and dragged his mouth upwards to the tip, then sank back down again, repeatedly, moving his hands from his inner thighs to his hips to brace them. Sam, reduced to a panting mess, wrapped his legs around Bucky's torso and warily risked threading a hand back into his hair.

“This i-isn't – _fuck!_ – your first t-time, huh?”

Bucky pulled his mouth off with a small obscene _pop_ long enough to say, “I was all the rage in the navy yard,” with a wink before going back down, his pace a little quicker, taking him in a little deeper. Sam cupped his head in his hand and started to tenderly card his fingers through his hair, a few of his sounds turning less panting and more keening.

Not long after that Bucky slid his hands down from his hips down to his ass and pressed upwards slightly – encouraging him to thrust – and Sam didn't need to be told twice. Careful, he thrust upwards into his mouth in tiny movements, gasping, “ _Fuck, babe, that's- you're- oh my-_ ” then suddenly he curled a fistful of Bucky's hair and tugged upwards, warning, “I-I'm gonna- I'm gonna-”

Bucky pulled off and stroked him the rest of the way with his right hand, and after the third stroke or so Sam came with a shout.

When he finally came down enough from his happy high Bucky was laying beside him again; Sam immediately leaned up and kissed him, shaken to taste himself in his mouth. When they broke away, he panted, “Can I get you off now?” reaching towards his dick.

Bucky grabbed his hand and grimaced. “It's kind of broken.”

Sam blinked up at him, still breathing deeply, dazed and confused. “Someone broke off your _dick?_ ”

Bucky huffed a laugh and shook his head. “No, no, it just, uh... I can't get it up.” To prove his point, he gently pressed Sam's hand to his crotch – soft. “The back door does the job, but I don't think you have any lube in this place.”

Sam dramatically threw an arm over his face and cursed. “Because I didn't think I'd need it.”

“Guess you know what you're getting next time you go out?”

“Yeah, yeah... dammit, I'm sorry.”

Bucky leaned over and kissed him, deep. “Guess you'll just have to make up for it sometime.” Then he started wiggling his eyebrows, and Sam finally hit him with a pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's almost 2 o'clock in the morning but I haven't gone to bed yet which means that it's still today (yesterday) by my terms so technically I'm not late! Hoho.


	4. AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “i was driving through the middle of nowhere when suddenly this freak storm showed up and decided it wants to murder me; yours is the first house i’ve seen in ages, please let me in” au

It was high noon on a Saturday in autumn, but it may as well have been midnight for how dark the sky was.

Sam was driving on a back road through a seemingly-endless expanse of bare hills and the occasional patch of trees in an attempt to avoid the main toll roads. He was thoroughly regretting that decision, now.

There was a flash and then a low growl of thunder in the distance. After a minute or so, there was another flash, and another – the thunder violently clapped, sounding closer, until suddenly lightning was dancing around everywhere in all directions. The thunder was less of a rumble now and more of a sharp crash followed by something heavy tumbling down a flight of stairs. The wind picked up with a sudden sigh, swirling the grass around and whistling past his car.

Then the rain started.

The storm wasted no time; one second there were only sprinkles on Sam's windshield, and the next he couldn't see through the torrential downpour. He slowed the car down from 56 to 35, turned on his high beams, and set his windshield wipers on the highest setting they had – which barely did anything. Lightning struck a tree not 200 yards behind him and the thunder shook the car; he let out a long stream of colorful curses.

He should pull over and wait it out. Or find shelter. The only thing was, this road didn't _have_ a shoulder, and his car was the only thing in a giant expanse of nothing. What was he supposed to do? Sit on the road waiting to either be struck by lightning or rear-ended? There wasn't even a _ditch_. So he continued driving.

After about fifteen minutes of driving through Hell itself, cursing every few seconds, Sam heard a sharp _tap_ on the car's roof. At the exact same moment, he spotted a wooden ranch house up ahead with its lights on. _Tap tap, tap_.

The white pellets bouncing off his windshield confirmed his fear – it was starting to hail, now, and he was probably going to die horribly. Unless-

As another lash of thunder shook the car, Sam abruptly pulled into the driveway, drove as close as he could to the front porch, and turned off the car. He took a deep breath, counted to three, then burst out of the car and _ran_.

The roof of the porch managed to shield him from the hail and most of the rain, but the wind was relentless and the lightning terrifying; he pounded his fist on the front door and shouted, “ _Hello?! Please let me in! Help!_ ”

There was a sound that he hoped was hurried footsteps, then – the door opened. Sam barely bothered to even look at the guy, too busy listening to him usher, “Come in, come in!” He slinked inside and the man shut the door behind him, locking it.

With a barrier between him and the storm, Sam felt safe enough to take in the place – it was warm, homely, maybe a little rustic with its dark wooden walls and pine floorboards. It certainly _looked_ like a ranch house, what with the quilted blankets on the walls beside paintings of western landscapes. There was a table-lamp with a base shaped like a cowboy boot, and there was a horseshoe hanging over the archway to the kitchen.

Sam shivered and tried to wipe away the rainwater sliding down his forehead with his soggy sleeve. “Oh my god, thank you.” _Please don't be an ax murderer._

“Hey, don't worry about it. You wanna take your shoes and jacket off?”

Sam finally looked at the guy, and hell- _o_ there, cowboy: his long brown hair was pulled back in a pony-tail, his pale skin was a little sunburnt, and he was wearing boot-cut jeans and a red button-up flannel – his left sleeve was empty and pinned up to his shoulder.

Sam smiled at the guy and nodded, sliding off his jacket to hang on the coat-rack and toeing off his soaked sneakers. He set them beside the pairs of cowboy boots by the wall.

The guy then continued by gently prompting, “There's a fireplace in the living room; I've got some wood burning. You look cold.”

“That sounds... nice. Thank you.”

The guy led him to an old, firm couch in front of a large, stone fireplace. The thunder was still loud and terrible, making the coffee-table shudder, but in between the claps the soft hiss and crackle of the fire was just what he needed to soothe his nerves.

The guy drifted slightly towards the kitchen archway. “Want some hot cocoa?”

“ _Yeah_ – I mean, no, I don't want to be any trouble-”

The guy waved him off and started walking into the kitchen. “Oh, nonsense.” He quickly returned carrying a plate holding two mugs and gently set it down on the coffee table. After Sam grabbed a mug, he carefully eased himself down onto the opposite side of the couch and took his own mug. “So what were you doing out driving in this shit?”

Sam chuckled and shrugged. “I'm on my way out to Oregon to surprise my family at a family reunion. I got a flat in Ohio and had to buy a new tire, so I was trying to avoid the toll roads. I guess I didn't check my weather app today.” The man smiled and took a sip of cocoa. “My name's Sam, by the way. Sam Wilson.”

The man set down his mug so he could hold out his hand. “Bucky Barnes. Pleased to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too. So, uh...” Sam let go of his hand and took another sip of cocoa, “is this your place?”

“Oh no, I'm just house-sitting for my boss.”

“Boss? So, what, you're a ranch-hand?”

“Me and about two dozen other people. He's a good man – that's him on the mantlepiece, up there.”

Sam squinted at the framed picture on the mantle; it was of an old black man, bald, wearing a dark jacket and an eye-patch. He was smiling, and was flanked on both sides by a line of grinning men and women of all different races, shapes, and sizes.

“Are those the others?”

“Yup, that's us.”

“You all look like a close-knit bunch. Is he really that nice?”

Bucky scoffed. “No, not 'nice,' per se, but he gives us all opportunities of employment when very few other people would. He gives us honest wages and good hours. We'd all take a bullet for him.”

“What do you mean by 'very few other people would'?”

Bucky shrugged and took a long drink of his hot cocoa. Then he warily said, “Some of us are mentally ill, some disabled, some felons, others DDs.”

“DDs as in...?”

Bucky took another slow drink. “Dishonorable discharges.”

Sam reflexively wrinkled his nose then scolded himself for it. “He certainly does sound like a good man.” He, too, took a long drink.

After a long moment, Bucky prompted, “So what do you do, Sam? What's your career?”

“I'm a therapist at the VA in Washington, DC. I'm hoping to one day get a PhD.”

Bucky smiled, pleasantly, but it seemed a little hollow. “That's nice.”

Time passed in silence. Eventually, after ten or so minutes of listening to hail pelt the windows, Sam quietly prompted, “Where did you serve?”

Bucky drank the last of his cocoa, then flatly said, “Iraq.”

“How many tours?”

“Three.”

“Is that where... your arm?”

“Mhmm.”

Sam nodded, then finished his own mug. “You seem like a good guy, Bucky.”

“Thanks.”

“Yet... I'm assuming you're one of those dishonorable discharges?” Bucky side-eyed him and nodded. Sam frowned and looked away. “You don't seem the nasty type, so what did they charge you with? Desertion?”

“Murder of a Commanding Officer.”

Sam stared at the fireplace. “Was there a reason?”

“Oh, there was a _reason_ , all right.” Bucky squeezed the mug until his knuckles went white, then abruptly set it down. “I was part of a bad unit. A _bad_ unit. I kept kicking up a fuss, even took it to the brass. Was essentially told to shut up. My unit wasn't amused, so they...” He shook his head, then continued, “ _Captain Alexander Pierce_ was a sick man. There came a point where we engaged in a particularly bloody siege of a stronghold and I got an opening, so I took it. Pointed my gun to the back of his head and-” he mimed pulling a trigger “- _whammo_.” He shrugged. “A member of my team, Brock, witnessed it, reported it, here I am.” He looked like he wanted to spit. When Sam said nothing, he continued, “Is this the part where you flip me the bird and run back out into the monster storm?”

Sam shook his head and sighed. “No, I think this is the part where I reflect on how things aren't always black and white.”

Bucky nodded his head once, then set their mugs back on the plate and carried them back into the kitchen. When he returned, Sam asked, “Have you been able to talk to a therapist, councilor, _anyone_ about what happened to you over there?”

Bucky huffed and plopped back down on the couch. “I don't qualify for the VA, and my health insurance isn't good enough.”

Sam pulled out his phone and quickly started scrolling through his contacts. “I have a friend at the office, her name's Susan – I think she could give you some resources, help direct you to someone you can afford.”

Bucky blinked at him. “That's. Thanks.” He took out his phone, then looked over at Sam's, who was displaying her number so he could see. After entering her in as a contact, Bucky prompted, “So where did _you_ serve?”

“Afghanistan, one tour. I was a pararescue.”

Bucky pocketed his phone and raised his eyebrows. “That's really demanding. And dangerous. You save anyone?”

Sam smiled a little. “Oh, yeah. Lots. More than I lost, thank god.”

“So how'd you get out?”

Sam lost his smile and shook his head. “Night mission gone bad. Lost my whole squad. I was the only one to make it, and after that I – I got out.”

Bucky frowned and dipped his chin. “I'm so sorry.” Sam looked away and blinked, hard. “Have you managed to get any help? Are there councilors for the councilors?”

Sam managed to huff a laugh. “Yeah, I went to appointments for about two years. Got some medication. Almost got a PTSD dog. Didn't.” When Bucky tilted his head, he shrugged and added, “Thought there were others who needed it more than me.”

Bucky looked doubtful, but didn't press. Instead, he looked out one of the house windows. “That storm doesn't show any signs of stopping. I think there's a weather radio around here somewhere...”

–

Turned out that they were under a severe storm warning until 1:00AM. Bucky explained that there was a TV in the master bedroom, but the satellite got knocked out, so they'd have to find some other way to pass the time.

'Passing the time' ended up consisting of Sam telling cute stories about his nieces and nephews, Bucky showing off knife-flipping tricks with his pocketknife, and several long and heated rounds of Go Fish. When supper time came around, Sam offered to make them both spaghetti as repayment for the shelter and for Bucky's invitation for him to sleep on the couch overnight. They ate together and talked about their favorite movies, then Bucky washed the dishes while Sam debated with him whether or not Syfy Original Movies were so bad they were good or just plain bad (Bucky was for the former; Sam the latter).

They ended the day by watching Sharknado on DVD when the storm was more gentle, then turned in for bed.

–

The next morning, the sun was shining, birds were singing, and a rainbow hung over the trees. Sam woke up to the smell of pancakes, and quickly got himself cleaned up for breakfast.

At the kitchen table, after swallowing a mouthful of toast, he said, “You know, I really can't thank you enough for being so friendly and generous. I could've gotten myself killed out there last night.”

“Sam, after spending the past day with you, I can honestly say that that would have been a large blow to the world's decency.” Sam felt a little warm and fuzzy. Bucky's eyes twinkled, then he abruptly looked away. “Hey, so, um... Can I have your number?”

Sam wrinkled a brow. “I already gave you Susan's.”

Bucky looked back at him, deadpan. “I meant so that we could stay in touch. You know – personal?”

“Oh! Yeah! Of course! I'd like that.”

Bucky snorted, then handed him his phone.


	5. The Caps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short and sweet, featuring guest stars Tony and Rhodey. Because I was pressed for time.

“Ugh, there they go again.”

Rhodey, having been comfortably lounging in a beach chair, roused himself from his half-nap and squinted through his sunglasses to see what the hell Tony was on about. From their vantage point on the wooden deck of Tony's summer home on the top of a grassy hill, they had a clear view of the beach and ocean down below. Sam was in his wings, skimming along the water as Bucky ran the opposite direction with the shield. Both were in nothing but swim trunks. After a few seconds Bucky turned around and shouted, “ _Go long!_ ”

Rhodey and Tony watched the shield go whistling past for about a quarter mile before Sam snatched it out of the air, whipped around, and hurled it back. Their heads turned the other direction as it whistled past again, watching Bucky sprint down the beach towards the point where it would land, flip through the air and catch it, then throw it back – and so forth. Their laughter was carried by the breeze.

“So they're playing ultimate frisbee again. Was it really worth interrupting my nap?”

Tony sat up in his own beach chair and glared at Rhodey from under his huge, ridiculous sun hat. “ _Yes_ , because they're so _obnoxious_ about it.”

Rhodey settled back down and sighed. “Oh, you're just mad because your back went out on the last mission and you're jealous of them flipping around.”

“I! Am not! Jealous! I am still a lithe and strapping young man, thank you _sir_.” He primly sipped his martini.

“Tony. You're fifty-three years old.”

“Fifty-three years _young_ , honey-bear.”

Rhodey slowly rolled his eyes towards the heavens, then said, “Alright, so if you're not jealous, then what's so wrong?”

“Ever since they got together they've been so nauseatingly... _cute_.”

“What, you mean since they became the Captains America?”

“No, since they _got together_.”

Rhodey processed that for a second, two seconds, three. “ _Together_ together?”

“Together _together!_ ” Rhodey gaped and Tony cackled. “Holy _shit_ , Rhodes, the whole team's known!”

“Why doesn't anybody ever _tell me_ these things?!”

“Because we keep hoping you'll _learn_ , sweetcakes.”

Rhodey scoffed, then looked back down at Sam and Bucky. He was just in time to see Bucky catch the shield, kiss his hand, press it to the shield, then throw it back; he followed it to where Sam caught it, touched the spot, pressed it to his cheek, then did the same back at Bucky. “Aww. Young love.”

“Nauseating.”

Rhodey slowly blinked, then turned towards Tony and gaped. “Oh my god.”

Tony immediately started glancing over himself. “'Oh my god' what?!”

Rhodey started snickering. “You're turning into a bitter old man!”

“Wha- _am not!_ ”

“What you gonna do next? Yell at them to get off your lawn?”

“You shut your mouth!”

Still laughing, Rhodey got up, went to the railing, cupped his hands, and hollered, “ _Hey, you horny teenagers! Old Man Tony wants you to tone down the PDA!_ ”

Sam hollered back, “ _Scew you!_ ” while Bucky flipped them a double bird.

Tony leaped up and smacked his shoulder. “You are _older_ than me, Rhodes!” He leaped back and put up his fists. “Put up your dukes and fight me, you old geezer!”

Rhodey raised an eyebrow.

–

Sam touched down in the sand beside Bucky to watch the spectacle – Rhodey was running across the beach, carrying a shrieking Tony in a fireman's carry, before charging into the water and dunking him into the ocean.

Sam chuckled and shook his head. “You wanna go get ice cream?”

Bucky curled his arm around Sam's back, situating the shield more securely on his other arm. “That sounds perfect.”

He hopped up into Sam's arms in a bridal carry; then Sam unfurled his wings, and off they went.


	6. Future

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt for this one was _"Where will their future go after Civil War? Infinity War? Beyond?"_ and all I could think was "Hopefully to a peaceful place."

At the end, they walk away. After so many wars, after so much death, at the end – after the last blood is spilled, the last building falls; when they say goodbye to the last of their friends after the ash settles –

at the end, when Sam's hair is turning gray and wrinkles begin to grace his face, his arthritis forcing him to hang up his wings; when Bucky lost both his legs in the last intergalactic war and never got used to his new bionic limbs –

at the end, when their team fades away to make room for the new and vibrant youth that step up to take their place (they hand down the shield to a young man named Elijah Bradley; it is in good hands) –

At the end, they go on a road trip.

They buy a used car in Washington, D.C. Something dull and plain, ordinary, something that will help make them invisible. It turns out to be a 2006 maroon four-door with three dents in the trunk. Bucky affectionately names it “The Rustbucket.” Sam warily dubs it “The Death Trap.”

In Georgia, they make a detour to follow cardboard signs reading “Farmer's Market →”. They purchase a jar of peaches, and feed them to each other that night in their motel room. They are the sweetest peaches they have ever tasted.

In Louisiana, there is an alligator on the road. The road is only two lanes, and the alligator is in the middle. Long lines of honking traffic form on each side of it. The alligator does not care. Sam worries that it might be dead, until it opens its mouth to display large, serrated teeth. After another half hour, Bucky declares that he's “gonna wrassle it.” Sam tells him that if he tries, he'll run him over. Animal Control shows up five minutes later and escorts the gator to safety. Bucky does not wrassle the gator.

In Texas, there is an abandoned rest station dying on the side of Route 66. Its signs are faded beyond recognition, its windows are boarded, its concrete tables sit empty, and vines cover the gas pumps. Bucky insists they pull over and walk around. After wandering the gravel for a time, Bucky returns to Sam and hands him an agate. The mineral swirls in the smooth surface of the broken rock suggest the wingspan of a bird.

From New Mexico to California, they experience nothing but pale red desert. The blue sky is as endless as the sand. They occasionally pass by a small town with a western-themed diner. The motel has a cow skull in the bedroom. There is a stuffed vulture in the corner.

In Arizona, they go to see the Grand Canyon. Bucky walks to the edge and falls to his knees. He is quiet for a long time. Steve's sketchbook is in his hands. Sam leaves him alone.

In Utah, while drinking rest stop coffee in the cool desert morning air, Sam frantically calls Bucky over to a rock. There is a lizard doing push-ups. Sam starts bobbing his head in time with the lizard. Bucky smiles and takes pictures.

In Washington, they go bird watching. They walk along a nature trail surrounded by a towering forest with leaves of the deepest green. Sam keeps having to wipe the mist off of his binoculars. At one point, they find a small waterfall. Sam spots a duck with bulging red eyes and an emerald-green mullet. Bucky doesn't take a picture of the duck, but he does take a picture of Sam's face.

In Montana, the Rustbucket dies in a pyre of black smoke. They hold a small funeral, then call a tow truck to haul them in to the nearest sleepy town of six-hundred people. The local mechanic recognizes them and shakes and stutters, asking them to sign autographs for his daughter and calling them heroes. He lets them exchange the Rustbucket for a retro baby blue pickup truck. Sam hugs him. The man is smiling and wiping his eyes in the rear-view mirror as they drive away.

In Wyoming, their motel room has a painting of a sailboat out at sea. An anchor hangs on the wall. The closest lake is sixty miles away. The owner at the front desk looked sad.

In Nebraska, they drive parallel to a super-cell. They watch in tense silence as a large funnel rotates towards the ground, gets three-quarters of the way there, then returns to the sky. They stop at a motel in the next town and kiss in the rain.

In Kansas, they stop at a gas station with dinosaurs made of scrap metal standing out front. The T-rex acts as a windmill. Sam takes no less than a dozen pictures.

In Oklahoma, they play I Spy. Sam guesses corn. Bucky guesses corn. Sam guesses corn. Bucky guesses corn. Sam guesses-

In Missouri, they follow signs that promise them “The Route 66 Rocker.” The Route 66 Rocker is not a rock concert. It is a 5-story tall rocking chair.

In Michigan, they stop at a way station that advertises knick-knacks and homemade fudge. Sam buys a figurine of a bald eagle and Bucky buys a tub of chocolate fudge.

In Tennessee, they are cut off by a car with a Hawaii license plate. Sam slams on the breaks and flashes his lights at them. A gruff, bald white guy covered in tattoos leans out of the passenger window and flips them off. The Winter Soldier leans out of the passenger window and flips them off with his metal hand. The guy ducks back inside and the car abruptly speeds away, going ten miles over the speed limit.

In New Jersey, they are stopped at a red light. An SUV pulls up beside them and there is a dog with its head hanging out of the window. It is wearing hot pink shutter shades. Bucky slowly closes his eyes and holds his hand over his heart while Sam hollers at the driver for permission to take a picture.

In New York, they don't go to New York City. Instead, they take a gravel road that's barely big enough for their truck through the countryside. They come across a creek trickling under a low bridge in a pocket of woods, surrounded by tall grass and wildflowers. Golds and reds are starting to seep into the leaves of the trees, mirroring the sunlight shimmering off the water. Bucky pulls off onto a dirt patch with tire marks and they sit on the hood with the engine ticking beneath them, listening to the wind and the water and the birds. Sam's hand finds Bucky's and he threads their fingers together.

In Rhode Island, they stop for lunch at a rundown cafe simply named “CAFE” in blocky font. It is dimly lit and painted in faded, sterile colors. The eggs are runny and the toast is hard. A warbly jukebox has been softly playing “What's New Pussycat” four times in a row. Their waitress's eyes are sunken and her smile is distracted. They leave her a one hundred dollar tip.

In Maine, Sam pulls into a long driveway leading to a two-story house in the middle of the forest. He stops outside the house and tells Bucky to open the glove compartment. Bucky removes an envelope and opens it. The deed to the property is inside. Tears in his eyes, he struggles to speak for a while, before finally managing to order Sam out of the truck. They hop out, run around the front, and hug. Then Bucky steps back, goes down on one knee, and informs Sam that he's not the only one with a surprise. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out of a black velvet box.

He asks him to marry him.

In their new beginning, Sam says yes.


	7. Author's Choice (Finding Sam)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought it would be nice to extend Day 1.

Six months, two weeks, and three days. For six months, two weeks, and three days, he had avoided capture by those who wished to harm him – and also those who wished to help him. His main problem was that he didn't know which group was which. It seemed to change by the day.

He had seen his reflection in a mirror the other day, squatting in an abandoned farmhouse in Pennsylvania. It was an old thing, as tall as his body, standing on its own on the floor, its surface covered in dust. On a whim, he used his coat sleeve to wipe the dust away. When he looked back up, he saw his face.

The dark circles around his eyes were almost to the point of looking like bruises. His cheeks were now gaunt enough to suggest the outline of his skull, and he hadn't bothered to shave for the past three months, resulting in a modest beard. He kept himself washed when he could, but only because it was routine, because his head was telling him poor hygiene would attract the wrong kind of attention. He had woken up a week ago with his left arm dead, refusing to move. He held it in a makeshift sling of torn bedsheets underneath his too-big coat.

He hardly ever wanted to eat. He hardly ever wanted to do anything. Not because he didn't know how, not because he was scared – but simply because he was... _tired_.

So, so tired.

It was time to stop running.

He had been slowly gravitating towards Washington, D.C., for the past few weeks. At first, he didn't know why. To return to the place where it all went to shit? Would that place be Washington, or the Swiss Alps? He had already been to Siberia, and couldn't bear to be there for longer than it took to lash out at his tormentors, breaking their toys. Washington had the same sensation, the same sickening itch, but looking deeper there was another sensation:

Hope.

He knew what he was looking for as he walked along the concrete paths of the National Mall. It was the early morning hours of November; the leaves were falling from the trees and there was a chill in the air. With the sun just rising over the horizon, painting the sky in oranges and pinks, nobody paid any attention to the hunched homeless man shambling along against the cold.

Then he spotted him.

Sam was sitting on a park bench, tightly bundled in a thick winter coat, with a brown paper bag in his hand. He was completely surrounded by pigeons. Periodically, he'd reach into the bag and fling out a handful of bread crumbs. The pigeons would flap and flutter in joy, then peck the crumbs from the concrete. He was smiling.

Bucky walked into the fray and sat down on the bench beside him. Sam looked at him and wished him good morning, looked at his birds, then did a double-take. He blinked, swallowed, then slowly sat back. After a stretch of silence, he looked away, reached into the bag again, and tossed more crumbs.

Bucky wanted to say something. _Did you fix your wings?_ Or _Thank you._ Maybe _You didn't come after me._ But his mouth was dry and his throat was stuck. He sat in silence, instead, watching the pigeons. One strutted over, eyeballed him, then pecked at his boot.

Sam smiled at the pigeon and finally looked at him; Bucky swore his gaze sparked warmth back into his limbs. “I think that one likes you.” Bucky tilted his head at the pigeon and wiggled his foot. The pigeon pecked it again. His mouth twitched upwards. Slowly, the brown paper bag came into his view. “You wanna try?”

Bucky looked back at Sam and noticed that he, too, looked tired. There was something quiet about him, in his face and in his movements. His smile was genuine, however, and his eyes were warm. Bucky slowly reached into the bag, pulled out a pinch of crumbs, and tossed them onto the concrete. The pigeons fluttered and cooed.

After swallowing and licking his lips, Bucky rasped, “Do you have any more bananas?”

“Uh, not on me. I could buy some and be back in ten minutes, tops.”

“No, not...” Bucky shook his head and turned to look at him. “No. Do you have any... in your _home_?”

Sam was searching his face, brows arched upwards, his bottom lip separated from the top. Then, slowly, his mouth closed and his eyes crinkled. “Yeah. Yeah, I think I do.” He took the brown paper bag back, dumped what few crumbs were left to the pigeons, then crumpled it up and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. He put both of his hands on his knees, made as if to get up, then stopped. He looked at him again. “You're sure about this?”

Bucky slowly exhaled and nodded. “I'm sure.”

Sam lifted his hand towards him, then stopped. Something inside Bucky made him lean towards and into the touch, hungry, craven – Sam slid his hand from one shoulder to the other and held him, secure. It was like being pulled onto a life-raft after half a year at sea.

Bucky smiled at him, and Sam smiled back. “Then let's go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, everyone. The week is over.
> 
> I'm so, so happy that people have enjoyed these. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for every single kudo and comment.


End file.
